


Unwelcome Surprise

by run run whithertits (whithertits)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Corporal Punishment, Incest, M/M, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-16
Updated: 2010-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-13 06:01:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whithertits/pseuds/run%20run%20whithertits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Dean after Sam ran away to Flagstaff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_This town was supposed to be safe_ , Dean thought to himself frantically as he ran back into the living room. He tracked his eyes back and forth, desperate to see any hiding places he might have missed when he arrived home. "Sammy?!" Dean called desperately and listened to the silence offered back by the house.

He ran his hands through his hair, pulling at the ends. He shook off what he could of his nerves and checked the clock. Four hours until Dad was scheduled to check in-- four hours to find Sammy and bring him back home. If he could find Sam, at least, maybe he wouldn't even have to fess up to leaving his brother home alone _again_ for some sick freak or monster to get a hold of.

Dean closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He counted off seconds in his head until his heartbeat slowed and he could think straight again. First things first-- make sure Sam was missing, rather than out by himself to the library or a friend's without bothering to leave a note. They'd been living in Eloy for over a month: plenty of time for his dweeby brother to make nice with the locals.

Dean penned a quick note-- _STAY PUT back at 9 for da ds call_ \-- just in case Sam came home. He left the house unlocked with a grimace; Sam's key, forgotten or abandoned in the bowl, had been the first thing to tip Dean off.

The door and ratty screen slapped shut behind him, hinges screaming at the abuse. Dad had asked him to oil them, he remembered. One more thing he'd fucked up.

He jogged down the walkway. He had neighbours to talk to.

***

Even the neighbours who _didn't_ slam the door in his face had been useless. No, they hadn't seen his brother. Yes, they'd let Dean know if they _did_ see him. The cat-lady the next block over had offered to call the police, said she had a nephew who could get the search started early. Dean's stomach had tied itself in knots at the suggestion, which he quickly refused-- Dad would kill him if he got the fucking cops involved on top of everything.

The librarian had been better, offering up a near endless prattle about his brother, gushing as only a short, chubby old lady could, obviously charmed by Sam's polite, clean-cut nerdiness. She'd been more than happy to tell Dean _all about_ Sam's visit earlier in the day, when he'd returned all the books he'd had checked out.

Running home, Dean had felt like an idiot. It hadn't even occurred to him that Sam, _Sammy_ , would ever pick up and leave his school, skip out on the brief runs they made at being normal. John had even bothered to get them a house, for fuck's sake-- they hadn't had a house since before Sammy hit double-digits.

 _Why the hell would Sammy run away?_ Dean thought to himself frantically. The sun was a hand's width from the horizon, beating down bright and harsh.

Dean jerked open the screen and slammed into the house, running into the room he shared with his brother. The door to the closet was still pulled open from his initial, desperate search. His own duffle, full of every item he never wanted to leave behind, was just as he'd left it. Sam's-- a gift from their Dad when he decided Sam could be trusted to keep up in case of emergency-- was gone.

The phone rang. It was nine o'clock.

Dean walked out to the living room and picked up the phone, gripping the receiver in his fist. "Hello?" he said, voice numb.

"Dean," came the growl of his dad's voice from across the line. "How's Sammy?"

A fist closed around Dean's throat, trying to stop him from speaking. "Sir," Dean choked out. His hand on the receiver was shaking. "I can't-- Sammy's gone, sir. He left."

The phone was silent but for his father's breath. "He left?" The question was incredulous. "When did he leave?"

"I don't know. I came home and he was gone."

"Your school gets out before your brother's, Dean-- so where the hell were you?"

"I was out, Dad. Sir. I looked, asked around, but no-one has any idea where he's gone."

"Shut up, Dean. I'm coming home. It'll take me a few hours to find someone to take over. You are going to _stay put_ , you hear me? Sammy might still come home."

Dean nodded. "Yes, sir."

The phone clicked dead next to his ear.

***

It was dark by the time John got home. The doors opened quietly and he stood framed against the dim light of the streetlamp outside. "Dean," he said, as he stepped through and flipped the switch next to the door. The bare light bulb overhead sent the room into sharp relief.

Dean was sitting hunched over on the couch, head buried in his hands. Spread out on the table in front of him was all the paperwork Sam had accumulated in their time here-- homework, tests, permission slips. His eyes, when he turned them on his father, were dim and bloodshot. He scrambled to his feet as soon as he registered John's presence. "Dad," he said, voice hoarse.

John's legs ate up the space between them. His hand snapped out, quick as a snake, and tangled itself in Dean's hair. He pulled Dean's head forward, grip tight, forcing Dean's head to chest level, body twisted to accommodate the awkward position. "Where were you, Dean?" he asked. He used his grip on Dean's hair to shake him, once, hard. "Sammy gets home after you do-- or he _should_. So where were you, Dean?"

"I'm sorry," Dean gasped out, tears welling up. He blinked rapidly to clear the tears. "I was out-- I was. I was with a girl."

"A girl," John said, voice flat. "You've been leaving your brother alone again for a _girl_." He let go of Dean's hair and, almost casual, backhanded Dean across the face.

Dean twisted with the blow and kept his eyes lowered. "Yes, sir," he said quietly.

John shoved Dean and watched neutrally as Dean stumbled back a handful of steps. "Fists up," he said. His fists hung loose at his sides, clenching and unclenching slowly.

Dean straightened. The side of his face was flushed re d, swelling up lightly already. He raised his fists into a casual fighting stance and shifted his stance, ready.

When John swung out with his fists, Dean barely swerved. John's right hook took him full in the face, colliding hard with his temple. Dean stumbled and took a clumsy swing at John, a glancing blow that slid off John's shoulder.

"You're getting lazy, Dean," he said. He started jabbing at Dean's torso, sloppy, hard punches-- markedly different from the near-surgical precision he used in their training sessions. John's fits collided with Dean's sternum, stomach, gut and in one breath-stealing shot, his liver. Dean was barely standing by the end of it, fists still held up as th ough they were going to fight back.

"You can't even put up a fight." John raked his eyes down Dean's body, taking in the sweat, the back and forth sway . He snorted and lowered his fists. "Fine, then. If you won't act like a man, I won't treat you like one. Over the arm of the couch, pants down."

Dean's eyes widened in shock. "Yes, sir." With shaking hands, he undid his pants, lowering them and stepping out of the legs. He wasn't wearing anything underneath.

"Whore," John said to himself, angry. "My first born son is no better than a _whore_."

Dean bit his lip and bent over the arm of the couch, awkward. His t-shirt rode up slightly, leaving his ass completely visible.

John dropped his hands to his belt. He opened it slowly, pulling on the buckle and guiding the strap through his belt-loops. He folded it over once so he was gripping both ends in one hand. Without preamble, he brought his arm back and swung the strap forward. It hit across the skin of Dean's buttocks with a sharp _crack_ , leaving behind a bright red strip.

His arm rose and fell rhythmically, the loud slapping sound of leather on skin filling the air. Dean's ass, thighs and back went from the smooth, golden colou r they started at, past pink, past red, until they had darkened to a dark, bruised colour, red over bruised dark skin. Blue was fading in on Dean's back around the deeper edges of red already.

Against the bed, Dean was crying silently. Harsh sobs wracked his body, little wet breaths smothered into the couch cushions. John could see the snot running from Dean's nose, mixing with his tears to stain the couch dark. His son looked painfully young like that, limbs too long and thin, coltish. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?" he asked.

Before Dean could answer, the phone rang. John looked at his son-- unable to push himself up out of his snot, let alone answer the phone. He set the belt down and reached over to pick up the receiver. "Hello?" His voice was slightly out of breath with the exertion but evened out quickly.

"Hi!" chirped a happy, female voice. "Is Dean there? It's Sarah."

"Sarah," John repeated. He turned his gaze, hard, on his son. "I'm sorry Sarah, but Dean can't come to phone right now. I'll tell him you called."

"Sure!" came the voice from the receiver, before John settled the phone back in its cradle.

"Was that the girl you were with, Dean?" he asked. His rage, quelled by the violence, swelled up in his breast again. "Was that the girl you went out and whored around with while your brother _ran away_?"

"Yes," Dean gasped out around his still hitching breaths. "She's-- she's in my homeroom, her dad owns the grocery store, she lets me--"

"I don't want to hear it," John said, disgusted by Dean's attempt at an excuse. "I told you to stay here and take care of your brother. You disobeyed and he's _gone_. I don't want to hear about how you've been sticking your dick into girls for the sake of your _family_. Your family walked out that door and you had no idea it was happening." He put his hands on the bruised flesh of Dean's ass and gripped it tight, digging his fingers in. "You try to peddle your ass the same way you peddle your dick?"

Dean twisted around to stare at John, eyes wide. After a too-long pause, a quick "No," escaped his lips.

John stilled and loosened his grip for a second. "You have," he breathed out, shocked. He let his fingers stray into the crease of Dean's ass, wondering. "Did you turn yourself into a whore while I wasn't looking or have you always been this way?"

"I didn't-- it wasn't like that," Dean said, the whites showing around his eyes. He tried to twitch away when John's fingers brushed over his entrance, a scared whine creeping out from inside his chest.

"My son, the whore," John said, voice distant. He pushed his fingers into his son's ass, too-hard against the tight skin. When he twisted his fingers, he could feel his nails catch on the delicate skin of his son's apparently _fuckable_ ass, but ignored it. He knew where the prostate was-- Mary had been a firecracker in all the best ways-- and he used that knowledge to find and press into his son's, hard.

Almost in a trance, John fucked his son on his fingers. It seemed like a dream-- Sammy gone and Dean here, beaten past red into _hurt_ , his hole clenched like a vice around John's fingers.

"Daddy, please." Dean's voice broke in on John's thoughts like a clap of thunder. He dragged his fingers out of Dean's entrance and stumbled back, nausea rolling his stomach over.

"Put your pants back on," John said finally. He ran a tired hand over his face and rubbed at his eyes, trying to work out the tension headache he'd been wracked with since Dean's call. "And for god's sake, put on some underpants."

"'Can't," Dean said, eyes low. "Everything's dirty."

"Then you should have done the laundry, Dean." John kept his eyes off his son as he dressed. "If you can't handle a simple thing like that, I don't know why I thought you could handle your brother."

"I'm sorry," Dean let out. A fresh bout of tears squeezed past the slit of his eyes, dampening his too-long eyelashes. He took a deep, shuddering breath and opened tear-free eyes. "But I think-- I think I found something."

"What, Dean?" John asked, head tipped back.

"Sammy's class had a day trip a few weeks back, just after we moved here-- you remember, you had to sign that slip? They went to Flagstaff. They went to that, that pioneer village thing. I called the bus station; they said a kid matching Sam's description bought a ticket to Flagstaff." Dean's words tumbled out of his mouth quickly, almost tripping over themselves in their haste to escape.

"Flagstaff," John muttered to himself. Flagstaff was big-- a whole hell of a lot bigger than Eloy. "If he's there, we have to leave now. We won't be able to catch him, but we might be able to find someone who saw him.

"You're driving, Dean. I need to sleep. When I wake up, we're going to find your brother. You think you can do that, at least?"

Dean practically wilted at John's words. "Yes, sir."


	2. Fallout

John's entrance made Bones whimper and draw back, ears pressed flat to his head . Sam curled his left hand into the dog's collar, his right into the scruff at Bones' neck. He'd always known John would find him. Two weeks-- not bad, all things considered. His father had _never_ taken that long to find a living, breathing human being before.

The first thing John did was draw Sam into a quick, hard hug. It would have been awkward-- Sam had no intention of hugging back-- but John stepped forward, forcing himself past Sam, into the house.

Dean followed in their father's wake, tired eyes sunk into his pale face. Dean closed the door quietly. He inspected Sam quickly, relief stark on his face. "Sammy," he breathed out. His spine straightened and tension visibly fell out of his shoulders.

Sam shoved aside his feelings of guilt; he'd done what he had to do. Two weeks he'd lived on his own, free from Dean's over-protective hovering, from John's orders, from any authority but his own. He'd been fine by himself; he'd cooked, cleaned and even learned how to work a washing machine. He'd taken care of Bones. He didn't need his family smothering him.

Bones strained against Sam's grip on his collar, tongue lolling out, tail wagging slowly back and forth. Sam let the dog go and watched, unsurprised, when Bones tried to jump all over Dean. Animals always loved his brother.

"Dean," John's voice snapped out. Dean pushed the dog down with gentle, clumsy hands and turned his attention to their father. "Get Sammy's stuff and put it in the car. We're going to be back on the road in ten minutes."

"What makes you think I'll go anywhere with you?" Sam asked petulantly. He watched, heart-sick, as Dean gathered up everything he'd brought with him to Flagstaff.

"I'm not in the mood for your lip, Sammy." John crossed his arms and glowered. "You want to explain just what you thought you were doing?"

Sam stuck out his jaw, stubborn. "Does it matter?" he demanded. "Is there any reason you'd accept?"

John looked down at his son evenly. "No," he admitted. "There isn't. But that doesn't mean you don't have to tell me exactly what you were thinking. You're not even a teenager, Sam. Even the government wouldn't let you out on your own."

"Oh, like you really care what the _government_ thinks," Sam snarked, crossing his arms over his chest. "You left Dean an d me alone for that long when Dean was my age."

"Dean's different." John's eyes flickered to Dean for a moment, darkness clouding his eyes. It faded when John looked back at Sam. "He can take care of himself."

"And I can't?" Sam demanded, voice climbing with his anger. "What makes Dean so much better than me, huh?"

"Don't use that tone with me," John said quietly. "I never said Dean was _better_ , but it's his job to take care of you. He's your big brother; he's responsible." John looked toward Dean, who was slowly zipping Sam's duffel, dug out from under the bed, closed. "Or so I thought."

Sam scoffed. "Dean couldn't be any more _responsible_ if he tried."

John sighed. "Why did you leave, Sam? What are you doing here? This isn't your house-- you can't be going to school.

"I said I was going on vacation," Sam muttered, looking away. "They gave me a homework assignment I'll have to hand in when we go back."

"Go back?" John actually seemed surprised. "We're not going back, Sam-- you drew too much attention to us. Dean wasn't subtle-- the whole neighbourhood knows you went missing." He sighed and ran a hand over the rough stubble on his face. "You need to realize there are consequences to your actions."

"Consequences?" Sam asked, incredulous. "How is that a consequence? You'd have just picked up and made us leave as soon as you got back from your stupid _hunt_!"

John breathed deep, obviously trying to calm himself. "I just want an answer, Sammy. Why did you run away?"

"Just answer him, Sam," Dean said quietly. He'd moved over toward the door while Sam and John were arguing and stood there looking resigned. "If you answer him, he'll let it go, and we'll leave."

"I don't _want_ to leave, Dean!" Sam exploded, rounding on his brother. "I want to stay here and live a _normal_ life, be a normal kid! That's why I left-- because I know I'll never get that with you and Dad running around after every ghost or monster you hear about! I want to have a _home_!"

"You have a home," John said firmly. "We're your family. Your home is with us. If I hear anything about you planning to run off to live a _normal_ life again, it'll be the last. Now. Get in the car."

Sam scowled at his father. "Fine." He shouldered past his brother on his way out the door, brushing deliberately hard against John's obedient, _perfect_ son.

Dean grabbed his arm on the way out the door. Sam stared back, unphased, until Dean brought him in close in a tight huge. "I'm glad you're alright, Sammy," Dean whispered into Sam's hair.

The rush of guilt Sam had ignored when he first saw Dean rose up inside his chest. "I didn't mean to make you worry," Sam muttered back, grudgingly. He ducked his head and wriggled out of Dean's grasp. He went out to the Impala, Dean following close behind.

***

John dropped Sam and Dean off at a motel and left to "take care of loose ends". Sam felt a pang at the thought of Bones going to the pound but let it go. He'd always known he wouldn’t be allowed to keep Bones for long.

Dean stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped around his waist. He dropped the towel and tugged his pants on and frowned. "You seen my shirt, Sammy?" he asked, head scanning the room.

"It's Sam," he said, nose buried in the book of obscure summoning rituals John was making him read. "And no, I haven't seen your shirt."

Dean frowned and turned back to the bathroom, muttering obscenities. Sam watched him lazily for a moment, and then frowned. "What happened to your back, Dean?"

Dean spun around, shock painted clear as day across his face. "Nothing," he said quickly. He crossed the room to his duffel and pulled on a new shirt, motions quick.

"I'm not kidding; your back is covered in bruises." Sam's brow furrowed in confusion. "They look old. Did you and Dad go on a _hunt_ while you were looking for me?"

"Of course not, Sammy," Dean said. He sat himself on Dad's bed and turned the television on. "Jenny Jones' is doing a makeover episode, I wanna watch the hotties."

"Don't change the subject, Dean." Sam closed the book and clambered onto the other bed, trying to get a grip on Dean's shirt so he could see his brother's back. "Your whole back is yellow-- it looks like you were thrown into a wall by a poltergeist!"

"I said it's nothing, S am." Dean shoved Sam's hands off of him and twisted away, scowling. "I'm fine."

"If you were fine you wouldn't be covered in bruises," Sam pointed out archly. He crossed his arms and leveled a stare at his brother.

Dean sighed. "It's no big deal, Sam."

"If it weren't a big deal you'd have told me what happened."

Dean's face was a carefully constructed wall of blankness. "He didn't mean any harm," he said finally, reluctantly.

"He-- you mean _Dad_?" Sam asked, incredulous. "Dad did this to you? When? Why?"

"It doesn't matter," Dean brushed it off, hand cutting through the air. "He was angry, he reacted. It was my fault, I should have-- never mind. Sammy, it doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters, Dean!" Sam cried. "If Dad's shoving you around hard enough to bruise, that matters!"

Dean sighed. "I was out of line, Sam. End of story."

"It's so _typical_ for you to defend him," Sam said. Anger at his brother burst to life in his chest and clouded his vision. "He could stick you with a knife and you'd still be making excuses. _That's_ why I can't stand this family, it's like I'm living with a fanatic and you're his eager follower! I'm sorry, but I _didn't_ drink the Kool-Aid and I don't want to be a part of this life."

Dean's eyes stayed trained on the television. "I'm sorry you feel that way," he said quietly. "Just-- please don't run away again. Even if you're on your own, you won't be able to live the life you want until you're an adult. So just-- just wait, okay? It'll get better."

"This isn't because of _hormones_ ," Sam snapped out. He shoved himself back on the pillows next to Dean. They sat in silence and watched a woman-- obviously a fan of plastic surgery-- confront a man the captions helpfully informed them was a bully from her high school. "I hate him."

Dean's eyes were closed when Sam looked over. "I know, Sam. He does his best."

"That doesn't make me hate him any less."

"He loves you."

"Well, he has a funny way of showing it then. Why can't we just-- stay put, Dean? Make _real_ friends? Even Dad has Pastor Jim and Caleb."

"They know the truth, Sammy. That's why Dad trusts them."

"Whatever, Dean." Sam turned over on his side, away from his brother.

Dean was quiet. Then, "I love you too, you know, Sammy."

Sam closed his eyes. "I know, Dean. But that doesn't help anything."


End file.
